


Sticky Fingers

by WolfSpider



Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Age Difference, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 13:34:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17726174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfSpider/pseuds/WolfSpider
Summary: Peter is a pretty good teacher, when he wants to be, given a student who wants to learn-- this is just something Miles wishes he already knew how to do.(Miles gives Peter a handjob. It's complicated.)





	Sticky Fingers

**Author's Note:**

> This one's just porn, I don't know what to tell you.
> 
> Turns out I had exactly one (1) headcanon left and it was the one that probably should have stayed a jokey twitter shitpost but I guess I've never had an idea so ridiculous I couldn't actualize it, so here we are.

Listen: Miles had wanted Peter B. Parker to fuck him since the first time he accidentally-on-purpose saw him without his shirt on. That was in the heat of a New York summer, after a game of pick-up basketball on the 4th street courts that Miles won (Miles always won; he didn’t know whether to chalk it up to skill or, more insultingly, Peter letting him); they’d gotten cold tall cans of Arizona iced tea that left their mouths wet and dry, and then Peter had taken him back to his shitty matchbox apartment to hang and watch sports on the evening news. “I need a shower,” he’d said, first thing through the door, because there was sweat making the thin t-shirt fabric beneath his underarms and the fine hair at the back of his neck damp, and he’d left Miles to sip his tea and crack open a window and listen to water run in the other room while the apartment’s lone arthritic electric fan pushed warm, soup-thick air around the room.

When the creaky pipes finally went quiet and the door squeaked back open, Peter came out with a grubby towel half-wrapped low around his hips and slipping lower under the bulge of his belly, face ruddy from steam and water still dripping from his hair, droplets of it rolling down the planes of his soft chest. There wasn’t any definition there-- the abs the spider suit seemed to give him were a lie, that thing must have been made from spanx instead of spandex --a doughy roundness to his stomach and pectorals, chest furred with dark hair that lead down beneath the towel, obviously the body of an older man. Strong arms, shoulders still bulging with lean, wiry muscle, clear where his workouts focused, but soft in the middle with the fuzz of late afternoon stubble still haunting his jaw. He looked like somebody’s dad.

Miles’ tongue felt thick in his mouth, but he tried to play it cool. They’d gotten comfortable with each other the last few years, sure, but he hadn’t thought this comfortable, casual, familial, almost-nudity comfortable, and he didn’t _feel_ comfortable at all. He felt, suddenly, like he was seventeen and everything was still new and exciting with his body. Puberty had been a while ago, but it was a hell of a drug.

“Forgot my shirt,” Peter grunted, grabbing a different but probably days-old discarded shirt from the back of a chair and disappearing back into the bathroom, saving Miles the indignity of watching him try to pull it on over his head without dropping his towel. Peter B. Parker, still a hot mess.

He just kind of wished he could forget the ‘hot’ part.

That summer stretched on forever, the kind of summer vacation that seems like a lifetime all on its own, and Miles spent a lot of it visiting Peter with the new autonomous dimensional jump system Miguel had designed, just chilling, shooting hoops and studiously avoiding discussing either of their future life plans, because summer didn’t count. As long as Miles was home for dinner, no one cared-- he could spend all his afternoons in another dimension with no more consequence than if he’d been petting cats at the bodega down the street. Peter wore shorts and t-shirts that showed off his arms, and every time they played Miles watched the way his big hands palmed the ball, engulfing it, for purely strategic purposes. At least in summer you were expected to sweat a lot.

So, Miles had wanted it. For a long time he’d wanted it. He’d had ample opportunity to get used to the feeling and make his peace with it, start finding the low burn in the pit of his stomach whenever Peter’s voice dipped into a particular deep register familiar and nonthreatening-- instead he just kept getting more keyed up, more on edge. Kept thinking, late at night when he woke up with early morning wood throbbing embarrassingly against the inside of his thigh, what it would be like if they went there. He knew what Peter’s skin felt like, what his hands felt like heavy patting him on the back or gripping his shoulder with bracing encouragement, and it was just almost enough to extrapolate the pressure of those hands stroking down his stomach, opening his legs, touching everywhere Miles was sensitive about wanting to be touched.

Being seventeen was all want, all the time, it turned out. He couldn’t bring his head around to focus from the idea of Peter’s hands on him, all the little things he noticed now whenever they were together; how even though he’d shot up a foot and a half in the last year Peter was still taller than him, say. Peter was just a big, big man, even slouching with the abysmal posture of the chronically exhausted he he was imposing, and thinking about _that_ , paying attention to it whenever Peter got innocently in his space to throw a companionable arm around his shoulders or pass him a soda, just made him think about proportional hugeness and where the trail of hair dusting down his belly had lead--

Listen: it wasn’t like Miles had never seen another man’s dick before. He’d been in the boys’ communal shower at school after PE, he knew how to play the casual game of not deliberately looking at guy’s dicks but also not trying way too hard _not_ to look, because that was also suspicious. But there was a difference, you know, between showering between two guys in the five minutes before the bell rang for next period and trying to hurry up before the water went too cold, and the idea of getting up close and personal with a man’s cock, hard and blood-hot and fully erect, especially a man you were pretty sure, like, ninety-five percent sure, you were in love with. He knew what kind of cock he _wanted_ Peter to have, and wow, that was an awkward thought, but he did: thick and long enough that it wouldn’t even fit in his hand, let alone anywhere else.

And it was different, too, to think about the fact that the only dick he’d ever touched was his own, but Peter had had years of experience dating and years of being _married_ to contend with and judge against. MJ had probably given him dozens, hundreds of handjobs, especially when they were young and at the age for fooling around just like this…

That was what kept flashing through Miles’ head, perched in Peter’s lap on a sweltering Saturday night. Not that his lips felt full and stung swollen from being kissed, not that he could still feel the shape of Peter’s tongue slick in his mouth even after they’d broken apart to share a breath, not even (well, sort of) the triumph of going for it and being rewarded with Peter’s mouth on his and his thigh between his thighs, just as exhilarating as leaping out into empty air for the first time and trusting that he would catch himself. Adrenaline crashed through his system with every seizing knock of his heart against his ribs that brought the blood up in his cheeks and between his legs and still all that a part of him, the part that was responsible for pointing out obvious environmental threats, could think was, _Oh, shit, what if I suck at this?_

Peter wasn’t looking at him like he sucked. He was shifting around beneath Miles’ slighter weight on the couch like he was still getting used to the feel of him there and trying to find a way they could sit that wouldn’t start pushing pins and needles into his leg beneath the knee, but his mouth was open, jaw loose and slack, and his gaze was focused with battle-worn intensity on Miles’ face, the line of his neck. One big hand palmed the curve of Miles’ ass through his jeans, squeezing and kneading tight muscle until some of the tension there relaxed and Miles just melted, dick twitching. He felt embarrassingly hard, way too quickly; embarrassingly wet, precum leaking into his boxers as Peter pulled him firmly against him, encouraging him to rub up against the meat of his thigh.

“There you go, buddy,” he said, voice a lust-drunk slur, and he stopped groping Miles’ ass long enough to pat him approvingly instead, which would have been embarrassing too if it hadn’t sent an electric jolt through him that made his stomach clench and hold. Miles gripped his shoulder and held on, shifting his hips shallowly back and forth, feeling mostly the sweat-damp rasp of cotton and denim against the underside of his cock. Peter’s other hand grabbed at the corner of his jaw and pulled him back in for another kiss, sloppy and distracted and slow. When Miles moved a certain way he made a guttural, gut-punched noise into his mouth, and his hips came up by inches.

He was hard too. It was obvious, even if Miles couldn’t feel it; his pupils were blown wide and dark, his breath was cyclical and staggered and panting in all the ways that indicated severe, urgent arousal. “Damn, Pete,” Miles laughed, just as breathy and strangled. “You been poundin’ the Viagra already, old man?”

His smile flashed fangs. “Gotta be ready when the moment strikes, right?” And then it faded, he shuddered, his head tipped back. Peter cleared his throat and flattened his voice into something approaching normal, approximating control. “You know we don’t have to, if--”

“I want to,” Miles said, cutting off that foolishness before it could get started, and he squeezed Peter’s leg between his thighs, leaning forward to knock their foreheads together. And to show willing, and because he’d wanted to for a long time, he dropped his hand to Peter’s lap. He cupped a sweaty hand around the heavy bulge of him straining the cloth and Peter sucked in a sharp, sudden breath between teeth, his hips rolling up again like he was trying to buck Miles off even as his fingers tightened down hard enough to leave dark bruises in Miles’ firm flesh.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck!”_

Miles slid his hand up and down his shaft, feeling him out, thick lain up against his thigh. “Yeah?” he asked, rhetorical but also searching. “That good?” It occurred to him that Peter might not have been with anyone in a while either, that all of this was probably, to some degree, new for both of them, and that thought gave him the necessary burst of confidence required to deftly thumb the button fly on his shorts open, ease down the zip; before either of them really knew what was happening Miles was hooking his fingers under the loose elastic band of Peter’s boxers and working them down, caught under the arch of his hip to let his cock slap up against the underside of his wide stomach.

“Fuck,” Peter said again. Miles agreed.

Yeah, he was big: the usual cliches applied. Thicker than a Coke can, thicker around than Miles’ wrist, flushed full and dark with arousal. Cut, and smooth, shot through with fat veins that Miles wanted to trace his fingers down, a real man’s cock. It looked bigger than it had felt, and it had felt _huge_ \-- naked and exposed was another animal altogether. The tip was wet, and Miles wanted to taste it with the vague feeling that he shouldn’t want to want to.

It wasn’t like he’d never jerked someone off before, but the feel of that filling out his hand instead of his own shorter shaft was going to be so different as to be almost incomparable. All the false bravado faded away, and what was left was a ball of nervous energy fizzing in his stomach, a tension that made his mouth wet, and dry, and stuck his tongue to the roof. “Miles,” Peter said, and he kissed at the corner of Miles’ mouth, and it jerked him back into motion again, fingers circling around the base where Peter was thickest, knuckles brushing against the soft skin of his heavy sack. Good, that was good. Peter felt good against his palm, warm and pulsing gently with his heartbeat, velvet-hard, and there was something tender about holding him like that, both of them exposed and vulnerable. With steady, even pressure, Miles stroked his shaking hand down the full length of him.

Or at least he tried to. One hard tug and Peter made a differently strangled sort of noise, and Miles’ hand stayed right where it was-- another pull and Peter was frantically flapping his hand against Miles’ shoulder, a high note spiking in his voice. “Okay, okay, time out!” he said, grabbing for Miles’ wrist. “Miles, uh.” He coughed from deep in his chest, sounding a little like he was smothering a laugh. “Are you… stuck, bud?”

Shivering like he’d been soaked in ice water, Miles deeply, miserably wished that he could wash himself invisible until they both forgot he was there. He tried, more gently and carefully, to pry his fingers free, but still couldn’t open his fist; he was stuck fast, and there was only so much give there before sensitive skin would start ripping. “This never happens anymore,” he stammered, and then scowled, watching Peter’s chest go up and down with the rumble of what was definitely controlled laughter. “Hey, it’s not funny!”

“It’s a _little_ funny.” Miles tugged at him again, harder, and he yelped like a stepped-on cat. “Okay! No, you’re right. Not funny.” Peter’s thumb rubbed a slow circle at the inside of Miles’ wrist, then pulled away. Instead he drew that hand down Miles’ side until he shivered again, stroking over his t-shirt a few times before sliding up under the hem to touch bare, downy skin; everywhere his hand was Miles imagined a print lingering, branding him under his skin. His fingers were gentle trailing up from his hip, following when Miles’ belly quivered and sucked in, tracing the line of each rib. He smiled, soft and fond, and kissed Miles again, nothing urgent now, and the absurdity of this tenderness when Miles still had his hand on his cock made Miles want to laugh, too. “Okay, you’re nervous. What’re you worried about?”

It seemed so stupid and teenage, Miles didn’t even want to talk about it: that he wouldn’t be good enough, which he apparently wasn’t, that he’d make a fool out of himself, which he had. That his lack of experience would be obvious, that he wouldn’t do it right. At some point he must have mumbled some of this, cheek nuzzled against Peter’s scratchy cheek, because Peter wound an arm around his waist and held him closer. “I’m not gonna be good at this,” he definitely said, squeezing Peter tighter involuntarily.

Peter shrugged and trailed sloppy, open-mouthed kisses from the sensitive place behind the corner of his jaw down his neck to where skin disappeared under his shirt. “So don’t be good,” he said. “Best way to learn is just by doing, so we’ll learn together.”

Miles snorted something that might have been _You already know_ , and Peter bit down; just lightly, the hint of reproach delivered too light to leave a mark.

“It’s different with everybody,” he said. “You always have to learn each other.” His hand moved to the small of Miles’ back, holding him steady and secure, leading him-- like he’d lead a girl he was dancing with, and Miles took a deep breath, and let him. “So relax. D’you want me to touch you, or nah?” Peter was already touching him, quite a lot, but Miles knew what he meant.

“Yeah,” he said instantly, breathless with enthusiasm. “ _Hell_ yeah.”

This time when Peter laughed it felt like he was laughing _with_ him, and it spread warmth from his throat down to the hollow pit of his stomach, made his cock jump again, always on a hair trigger. “Relax,” Peter said again, resting his hand on Miles’ thigh and basically ensuring that relaxation was impossible, only tight-strung anticipation. “Keep holdin’ onto me if you want, I’ve got you. Just let yourself feel it.” His hand moved up and down, stroking him, moving a little higher each time until his fingertips were brushing up against Miles’ dick, just the slightest pressure.

Miles sat back again, giving him more room to work, and Peter pushed his shirt midway up his stomach, rolled around his ribs, before getting his jeans open. Every step seemed to come too quick and take a thousand years too long; Miles wanted Peter’s hand on him and he wanted to go back to just kissing and he wanted to be able to move with him, pump that big dick with both sweaty hands until he got slick and slippery and incoherent, show Peter that he was learning. It was stupid. He didn’t have anything to prove, Peter knew he could pick anything up on the fly, but he didn’t want to be outmatched here.

And then Peter started touching him, and he sort of forgot about everything else for a while.

Peter’s hand was rough, callused, and also sweaty. His hand didn’t quite close all the way around Miles’ cock, didn’t swallow him up entirely, but it was a close thing, and it was so much pressure all at once that the shock of it made Miles whine, sweet and high and shocked, and it turned every bone beneath his waist to shivering gelatin product. When he stroked it was with short flicks of his wrist that tugged the skin back to expose the shiny pink tip of his cock, and Peter pressed the pad of his thumb into the slit there, dragging down to the spot beneath the head that made Miles see every color behind his eyes when he dug in against it. All Miles could do was hold on, his free hand clawing at the back of Peter’s shirt hard enough to leave lines across the skin of his shoulder blades even through it, and rock his hips into Peter’s touch, humping his hand, the band of his boxers riding down a little lower around his thighs with every push.

He still wanted to see Peter’s naked chest again, run his fingers through the fur there, feel his full weight bearing him down against the couch or his bed or a kitchen counter, anywhere Peter wanted to have him as long as he wanted him, but impatience dissolved into pure raw sensation, and Miles wound up pushing their mouths together again, trying to stop himself from moaning out all his breath. Peter didn’t stop him, but he did pull away after a moment, grinning wolfish and crooked. His other hand was back on Miles’ flank, groping, possessive, kneading and pulling at him like he wanted to pull him open, which was a lot just then. “That’s good,” he huffed. “So good, Miles. You gonna be a good boy and cum for me?”

“S-shut up,” Miles panted, the words sticking in his throat, heat spreading from his cheeks down to his chest, but he couldn’t hide the way his stomach sucked in, tense and taut. They’d barely started, he could hold on longer than that-- but Peter was jerking him roughly, like he knew he could take it, a hard fast rhythm with no intention of savoring it, just drawing out the satisfaction of having Miles whimpering in his lap.

“Like this,” Peter growled into his ear. “Do it like this for me. That’s all you’ve got to do.” Miles nodded and felt his stomach swoop like he was falling, in the seconds before he caught himself when everything was glorious equilibrium, and he realized his hand was moving too, sliding over Peter’s cock inelegantly, halfway up and then back down to his balls. “Y-yeah, shit, you’ve got it. Like that, keep goin’.”

Peter took his hand away and Miles nearly growled back at him, the touch of humid summer air cold against him after the heat of Peter’s palm, until he settled that one, too, on Miles’ ass, using all his leverage to haul him in as close as they could get. Miles’ cock pressed to Peter’s pressed against Peter’s stomach, until he tried to get his hands around both of them and failed; he couldn’t jerk them both off, it was messy just attempting, but with the way Peter was rutting them together, it was enough. Miles gave up and collared his arms around Peter’s neck, not thinking about anything but slick friction and the ache between his legs becoming intolerable, pulse pounding until he _hurt_ with the overeager need of it.

“Peter, fuck, please,” he gasped, not knowing what he was asking for. His thighs burned from holding wide around Peter’s hips, now, he knew he was dripping, that it was embarrassing, that his skin was smeared pearlescent with his own precum and Peter’s, that he’d gotten Peter’s hand sticky. “I want you, man. I want--” and it hit him, then, like a sledgehammer blow to the back of his head, seizing him up, locking all his joints stiff as he got them more messy still, staining Peter’s shirt. He could feel more than hear Peter’s rough breathing, feel his bitten nails biting into the flesh of his ass, felt Peter scoop him up in his arms and hike him further up against his body where he lay, cooling off and getting his own breath back. In school they’d made his class read a book about a sled dog who’d run so hard her heart had just exploded when she crossed the finish line-- Miles felt like that. Winded, in a way that all the fights and scrapes he’d gotten used to hadn’t made him.

He felt it when Peter jostled him gently around in his arms, giving himself a hand to reach down and tuck himself, still hard, back into his pants. “Peter,” Miles said again, slowly, making the conscious choice to remember how speaking worked. “What are you doing?”

“I’ll finish off later,” he said, shrugging. “You did good.”

“Oh, no.” Miles pushed himself up off Peter’s chest, the heels of his hands to his collarbone, ignoring the way his elbows wanted to buckle and his thoughts still felt syrupy thick. “C’mon, that’s no fair. I want to get you off.” Miles stared him down, hard, and Peter didn’t argue at all when he reached for him again, just tipped his hips up to help.

“See?” Peter gasped. “You’re learning already.”

This time, he didn’t stick.


End file.
